


new familiar

by RowboatCop



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: (who has never particularly associated sex and love), Coulson is a shy little deer, Daisy likes Coulson's ass, Director Daisy, F/M, Hand Jobs, Vaginal Fingering, what does 'family' mean anyways
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-02-01 20:55:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12712779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RowboatCop/pseuds/RowboatCop
Summary: Sometimes he feels like this, like there's so much between them that he doesn't even know how to express it, how to let it out in a way that won't scare her.Hand jobs and feelings and Coulson working through some stuff with his new Director.





	new familiar

They're both still wearing suits, fresh from her Congressional hearing, as they enter the office. It's odd — the way the once-familiar clothing and the once-familiar space have grown unfamiliar. But as they lean against the front of the desk beside each other, he can get a sense of the office where they had spent hours, where she helped him do his job for two years. Where she'll do her job, now. It's unfamiliar, but also not really, also just a new way of being who they've been. 

“Congratulations,” Coulson offers, smiling over at Daisy, almost smiling more at her pensive expression, like she's still trying to figure out how she feels. She half-smiles down at the floor at his words, self-deprecation in every line of her body. 

“Me, the officially government sanctioned Director of SHIELD. Who'd have thought?”

The joke is obviously meant to deflect from his sincere congratulations, from the work she's done to set things on the right path. And he likes to think he's gotten pretty good at this, at knowing when to let her deflect and when to push back, and today he's going to push because she deserves to feel pride in everything she’s accomplished. 

Because he always knew they'd be here one day, knew it before she was Quake, before she was Daisy. 

He can feel his face get too soft as he looks at her, neck turned to take in her profile. 

“I did,” he says, mouth curved in a gentle smile.

“Yeah. You did, didn't you?”

She turns her head towards him, and there's something in her expression he can't quite read — gratitude he's never deserved and something more worried. A long pause stretches between them that makes him nervous, makes him turn his gaze back forward and twitch slightly against the desk, fiddle with his left hand. 

“So.” Daisy's finally managed to screw up the courage to speak, he thinks. “You gonna stick around as my agent?”

He's surprised it's even a question, and it must show on his face, turned suddenly towards her. 

“Of course.”

It's like he can see her relax, the way she sinks back against the desk a little, stretches her legs more across the floor. 

“You wouldn't want to leave SHIELD, huh?” She glances at the floor, eyes dipped down from his. 

“Yeah,” he says, feels his cheeks get hot, his own eyes drop to the floor. “I couldn't leave SHIELD.” 

She nods like she gets it, this thing he can't say. Sometimes he feels like this, like there's so much between them that he doesn't even know how to express it, how to let it out in a way that won't scare her. 

Daisy slides closer and touches his right hand where it grips the edge of the desk between them, and his fingers tense for a moment before relaxing into her touch, releasing the desk to hold her hand. 

“SHIELD would miss you,” she says, voice too quiet and cracking, and he sees her roll her eyes at herself through the corner of his eye before she takes a stabilizing breath. “ _ I'd _ miss you.”

She loosens her grip on his hand, as though she's ready for him to pull away at her admission, but he just holds tighter, links his fingers through hers.

It's there between them, this thing they've always avoided — this thing he avoids in his own mind, too. He screws up his courage and prepares to turn to her, to tell her with no coyness that  _ he'd _ miss  _ her _ . Not SHIELD, just her. That home, for him, will always be where she is. (That when she wasn’t here, this — SHIELD — wasn’t home, either.)

But he never gets to say it, never gets to do more than turn towards her, to watch the way she leans against her desk, all long legs stretched out in front of her and suit jacket pulled in at her waist, all tentative smile and his hand linked with hers. He doesn't often let himself notice how beautiful she is, but he can't keep the thought at bay tonight, that she's beautiful and also everything in the world he holds most dear. 

And then his lips are on hers. 

He can't even comprehend the series of events that lead to him kissing her, that lead to Daisy pushed all the way up onto the desk, his hands and his mouth and his hips pressed against her, sliding up between her outstretched legs. His whole body throbs with the intensity of it, of every move between them, and he groans into her mouth. 

It's a mistake and he knows he should stop, shouldn't let his hands creep up her thighs, shouldn't push his hips against her, needy and desperate. She's supposed to be his  _ family _ — no, not a daughter like he’d once tried to convince himself ( _not_ a daughter, he thinks, as he can feel the heat between her thighs against his erection), but family all the same. Something more important than this. More permanent than this. 

More permanent than grinding against her, than thinking about fucking her. 

That's what makes him pull back, at least his mouth, since his hands can't seem to stop squeezing the tops of her legs and his hips can't seem to stop seeking out all the contact he can get, pressing his cock to her. 

“Daisy,” he half-moans her name, expressive less of his worries and more of his arousal than he means it to be. He looks down enough to see her eyes shut, her lips wet (from his mouth, from his tongue pressing there). 

“Coulson.” She moans his name, eyes fluttering like she can't get them to properly open, and her hands clutch at his lower back over his jacket and then his butt, pulling him harder against her, tilting her hips against his cock. 

It strikes him that this isn't a mistake he's making, but something they're doing  _ together _ . Something that starts to feel a lot less like a mistake, once he realizes that she's right here with him. 

He doesn't have time to consider what to make of that, of whether being with Daisy could ever be a mistake, before she runs one hand up from where it's exploring his left ass cheek to tug his mouth back down against hers. 

Coulson groans into the kiss, into the way he can feel  _ her _ kissing  _ him _ now, her tongue against his, her teeth nipping at his lower lip, her hands back to groping his ass. Over the scratch of fabric, her fingers press in between his cheeks, pulling him against her as she tilts her hips against his cock, and he shudders against her, unable to think of anything but losing his clothes and being filled up by Daisy, surrounded by Daisy. 

As though she hears the thought, her hands slip to the front of his slacks and she works open his belt and fly. He means to return the favor, to pry his fingers off of her hips and tug open her pants, too, but as soon as her right hand wraps around his cock, he loses the ability to stand up on his own, collapses forward so that her body is holding him up while her hand begins to move over him. A moment later, her left hand is back on his bare ass, her fingernails drawing careful patterns across his skin before her fingers slip just barely between his cheeks, a tantalizing promise of what they could do — of Daisy inside him — with more space and time and lubrication.

He makes a noise that's something like a whine, high and tight in the back of his throat, and feels her smile into their kiss as her fingers press just a little more against him. And he wants more, more of this, more of her, more of them, in a way he's never really let himself imagine. 

The thought of more, more with Daisy, Daisy who is already family, Daisy who is already a permanent part of his life, is almost too much. 

Coulson is reduced to a series of grunts, like he can't stretch his lungs, can't take in enough air to do more than make helpless little noises into the side of her neck while she jerks him off. 

When he comes in her hand, it's fireworks up the back of his spine, a release beyond the fact of the orgasm. 

He’s vaguely aware of her reaching for a kleenex behind her as he pants against her shoulder, as he can’t seem to find his breath. And it should be absurd that a hand job in the office has left him so completely undone, but it's Daisy. 

Daisy who is permanent. 

And the fear that this was a mistake is lessened, replaced with a fear that it means more for him than for her, that she might somehow not know what she is to him. 

Because he’s never really managed to tell her.

Before his thoughts can run away with worries, she's moving against him again, fingers prying open her own slacks, wiggling enough that she can push them down her hips without rising from the desk, so the edges of her suit jacket fall across the tops of her naked thighs. He groans, the thought of putting his fingers on her — in her — almost too much to handle, and he can feel blood pulsing between his hips as though he didn't just come. 

“Coulson,” she murmurs near his ear when his fingers slide between her thighs, up until he can feel her slick and hot against his fingers. She clutches at him, her hand moving down the back of his jacket to once again grasp at his butt, fingernails digging into his skin in a way that he thinks probably shouldn't feel as good as it does. 

They groan together as his fingers press inside of her, hot and tight and good in a way he doesn't know how to handle. His lips cover hers again, a slow deep kiss with her tongue in his mouth. 

As she moves her hips in counterpoint to his fingers, he slides his left hand down the fabric of her jacket, down to slip underneath so he can clutch at her naked back, pulling her against him even though he can't feel her skin under his fingers. All he can think is that he needs to touch her more, a lot more, to feel all the parts of her with his right hand, with his mouth, with the rest of his body. 

She comes before he can make any of that happen, clenching around his fingers, tiny hitched breaths into his mouth.

He has a hard time moving away once she's stilled against him, a hard time letting his fingers slip out, a hard time imagining pulling back enough to look at her. He's never really known sex to make him feel as vulnerable as it does when it means brushing up against all the things Daisy already means to him, all the things they already mean to each other. 

So instead of pulling away, he buries his face in her neck, breathing her in, scared of what he's going to see when he looks at her. (Scared he’s not going to see someone who looks at him as permanent, as home, as pretty much everything.)

He kisses her neck softly and breathes in against her skin, trying to figure out what he needs to say and how to say it. 

“You're thinking too much, aren't you?” It sounds like she's yawning as she asks, and he nods into her shoulder, though he relaxes a little when her right hand strokes through his hair. 

“Probably.”

“Let's think in the morning?”

She slides down off the desk and buttons up her slacks, watching with obvious interest as he does the same, and then holds out a hand for him, clearly offering to take him to her bedroom. All the over-thinking stops, and it feels…normal, almost. 

A new normal, maybe. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, takes her hand and lets her lead him to bed, unfamiliar but also not. 


End file.
